The clan of the cave bear_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [193]
Iza’s statement jolted the lopsided, one-armed magician. He knew the series of fortuitous events that led to his acceptance. Only luck had preserved the highest holy man of the Clan. His mother’s mother once told him it was nothing short of a miracle. Was Ayla trying to make a miracle happen for her son because of him? It would never work. She’d never force Brun into accepting her son and live. It had to be his wish, his decision, entirely his.
“And you, Iza. Didn’t you tell her it was wrong?”
“I begged her not to go. I told her I’d get rid of the baby if she couldn’t. But she wouldn’t let me near him after that. Oh, Creb, she suffered so much to have him.”
“So you let her go, hoping her plan would work. Why didn’t you tell me, or Brun?”
Iza just shook her head. Creb is right, I should have told him. Now Ayla will die, too, not just her baby, she thought.
“Where did she go, Iza?” Creb’s eye had turned to stone.
“I don’t know. She said something about a small cave,” the woman replied with sinking heart. The magician turned abruptly and limped to the hearth of the leader.
The baby’s cries finally woke Ayla from her exhausted sleep. It was dark and the little cave was damp and chilly without a fire. She went to the back to relieve herself and winced as the warm, ammoniacal fluid stung her raw, torn flesh. She fumbled in the dark through her collecting basket for a clean strap and a fresh wrap for the wet and soiled infant, drank some water; then wrapping her fur around them, she lay back down to nurse her son. The next time she woke up, the wall of the cave was dappled with sunlight streaming through the tangled hazelnut branches that hid the entrance. She ate her food cold while the baby suckled.
The food and rest revived her, and she sat up holding her baby, musing dreamily. I’ll need to get some wood, she thought, and my food won’t last too long, I should get some more. Alfalfa should be sprouting; it’ll strengthen my blood, too. New clover and vetch shoots must be ready, and bulbs. The sap is up, the inner bark will be sweet now, especially maple. No, maple doesn’t grow this high, but there’s birch, and fir. Let’s see, new burdock and coltsfoot and young dandelion leaves, and fern, most of it will still be curled. I remembered my sling—there’s lots of ground squirrels around here, and beaver, and rabbits.
Ayla daydreamed about the pleasures of the warming season, but when she stood up she felt a gush of blood and a wave of dizziness. Her legs were caked with dried blood that stained her foot coverings and her wraps, jolting her into a more realistic awareness of her desperate situation.
When the dizziness passed, she decided to clean herself and then get some wood, but she didn’t know what to do with the baby. She was torn between taking him with her or letting him sleep where he was. Women of the Clan never left babies untended, they were always within sight of some woman, and Ayla hated the thought of leaving him alone. But she had to clean herself and get more water, and she could carry more wood without him.
She peeked out through the bare-limbed bushes to make sure no one was near, then pushed the branches aside and left the cave. The ground was soggy; near the creek it was a slippery mire of mud. Patches of snow still lingered in shaded nooks. Shivering in the brisk wind that blew from the east pushing more rain clouds before it, Ayla stripped and stepped into the cold creek to rinse herself, then sponged her wraps. The clammy damp leather did little to warm her when she put them back on.
She walked to the woods that surrounded the high pasture and tugged at some of the lower dried branches of a fir tree. A whirling vertigo overwhelmed her, her knees buckled, and she reached for a tree to steady herself. Her head was pounding; she swallowed hard to keep from retching as her weakness engulfed her. All thoughts of hunting or gathering food left her. The depleting pregnancy, the ravaging delivery, and the grueling climb